Teach us something, if you don’t we’ll not know that this war never ends, that we will be breathing the eternal war of our forbearers. We’ll not know that we exist in the bomb-tripped retaliation of hostilities not taught in history books or churches, not discussed at town hall meetings or in our homes. A history that will be neighbor to our children’s duration, whose marrow will be dust settling upon their bitter air of which their children breathe and envelop its despair. How much more will it take for us to tell the truth , to teach the truth, to sing the truth, to change our “truth”? We are a rigid-plated contraption, our engine’s dry of a useful knowledge, we are bred as a warring machine, the blades of our rhetoric based on lies, bullets in our history stamped “friendly fire”, arias of aggression harmonized to a drunken two-step. Our feet at birth tap out its refrain, our hands move in trigger-pull simulation, minds filled with jingoisms and fast food and television. And our
(The Weaver's Song)